“Regardless, if you plan to keep the baby, you should talk to the guy. Even if you don’t plan to marry him or anything, he should at least do his part. Pay for child support and all that.”
“I guess.” It’s my fault. I should’ve just walked away when I caught Emmett masturbating in his office. I squeeze my eyes shut. Why didn’t I do that? And the worst of it all, how am I going to tell him?
She wraps her arms around my shoulders. “Hey, girl. No matter what you decide, I’m on your side. And my mouth is zipped until you announce your impending motherhood.”
I hug her back. “You’re the best.”
“Let me know if you need anything, okay? You don’t have to try to figure this out on your own.”
“Okay. And thanks.”
Sasha helps me clean up the bathroom. What made the biggest ruckus and noise was a jar of cream that fell on the floor and broke. The
cream exploded on impact and splattered everywhere, kind of like my life.
When we’re done, Sasha returns to her room to change. I pick up my phone and stare at the screen.
I should tell Emmett. I don’t want to keep something this big from him. At the same time, I don’t know how to begin the conversation…or if it’s something I can text or should call him about.
Maybe I should talk to him in person. Except…
My hands grow clammy. Face to face sounds even more difficult.
The phone vibrates in my hand. I look down and see a text. Must be Emmett telling me he is in L.A.
–Emmett: Hey, my flight got delayed. Won’t get in until midnight.
I let out a shaky breath. The news feels like a stay of execution.
–Me: How about if I go over to your place tomorrow at
I think for a second. What would be a good time?
–Emmett: How about you come over at ten?
Well. I guess he made the decision, since I can’t think of a single objection.
–Me: Sounds great.
–Emmett: Awesome! Can’t wait to see you.
I exhale. Awesome isn’t what he’s going to feel when I drop the P-bomb on him.
Chapter Thirty-One
Amy
Okay, time to get proactive. I go out to Target and buy ten more pregnancy tests, all different brands. I also check the batch numbers to make sure they aren’t all the same. Statistical probabilities say I don’t need that many or be this paranoid, but I have to be sure.
Since my bladder is refusing to empty itself, I drink four cups of water and pace around the apartment until nature calls.
All ten tests come back positive.
Fuck. Me.
There’s no way I’m not pregnant. Which means I need to prep for tomorrow’s conversation.
I create a PowerPoint presentation to help collect my thoughts and create some props for the upcoming talk. They take forever, even though I can usually make one in an hour or less. The presentation formula is simple: